Evelyn Innes | Page 3

doubt that
Evelyn had inherited her voice, the same beautiful quality and fluency
in vocalisation; and thinking of it, Mrs. Innes held out her hands and
looked at them, striving to read in them the progress of her illness.
Evelyn wondered why, just at that moment, her father had turned from
the bedside overcome by sudden tears. But whoever dies, life goes on
the same, our interests and necessities brook little interference.

Meal-times are always fixed times, and when father and daughter met
in the parlour--it was just below the room in which Mrs. Innes was
dying--Evelyn asked why her mother had looked at her hands so
significantly.
He said that it was thus her mother foreshadowed Violetta's death,
when Armand's visit is announced to her.
In the silence which followed this explanation their souls seemed to say
what their lips could not. Sympathies and perceptions hitherto dormant
were awakened; he recognised in her, and she, in herself, an
unsuspected inheritance. Her voice she had received from her mother,
but all else came from her father. She felt his life and character stirring
in her, and moved as by a new instinct, she sat by his side, holding his
hand. They sat waiting for the announcement of the death which could
not be delayed much longer, and each thought of the difference the
passing would make in their lives! It was her death that had brought
them together, that had given them a new and mutual life. And in those
hours their eyes had seemed to seal a compact of love and fealty.
This was three years ago; but since Mrs. Innes's death very little had
been done with Evelyn's voice. The Jesuits had spent money in
increasing their choir and orchestra, and Mr. Innes was constantly
rehearsing the latest novelties in religious music. All his spare time was
occupied with private teaching; and discovering in his daughter a real
aptitude for the lute, he had taught her that instrument, likewise the
viola da gamba, for which she soon displayed even more original talent.
She played both instruments at his concerts, and as several pupils
offered themselves, he encouraged her to give lessons--he had made of
her an excellent musician, able to write fugue and counterpoint; only
the production of the voice he had neglected. Now and again, in a fit of
repentance, he had insisted on her singing some scales, but his heart
was not in the lesson, and it fell through.
He was suspicious that she knew she could not learn singing from him;
but an avowal of his inability to teach her would necessitate some
departure from his own ideas, and, like all men with a mission, Mr.
Innes was deficient in moral courage, and in spite of himself he evaded

all that did not coincide with the purpose of his life. He loved his
daughter above everything, except his music, and the thought that he
was sacrificing her to his ambition afflicted him with cruel assaults of
conscience. Often he asked himself if he were capable of redeeming his
promise to his dead wife, or if he shirked the uncongenial labour it
entailed? And it was this tormenting question that had impelled him to
light the candle, and raise it so that he could better see his wife's face.
Though an indifferent painting, the picture was elaborately like the
sitter. The pointed oval of the face had been faithfully drawn, and its
straight nose and small brown eyes were set characteristically in the
head. Remembering a photograph of his daughter, Mr. Innes fetched it
from the other end of the room, and stood with it under the portrait, so
that he could compare both faces, feature by feature. Evelyn's face was
rounder, her eyes were not deep-set like her mother's; they lay nearly
on the surface, pools of light illuminating a very white and flower-like
complexion. The nose was short and high; the line of the chin deflected,
giving an expression of wistfulness to the face in certain aspects. Her
father was still bent in examination of the photograph when she entered.
It was very like her, and at first sight Nature revealed only two more
significant facts: her height--she was a tall girl--and a beautiful
undulation in her walk, occasioned by the slight droop in her shoulders.
She was dressed in dark green woollen, with a large hat to match.
"Well, darling! and how have you been getting on?"
The vague pathos of his grey face was met by the bright effusion of
hers, and throwing her arms about him, she kissed him on the cheek.
"Pretty well, dear; pretty well."
"Only pretty well," she answered reproachfully. "No one has been here
to interrupt you; you have had all the afternoon for finishing that
virginal, and you've